


Pinned

by HiddenKitty



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: ...sort of :D, Bottom Bilbo, Erebor Husbands, M/M, Size Kink, idek how to tag this, is it bondage when you're not using any bonds, physical restraint?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 18:57:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11812179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenKitty/pseuds/HiddenKitty
Summary: A very, very long time ago I wrote a little something calledBoots, in which Thorin, retired to the Shire, got "tied up" and properly fucked by his husband Bilbo.  My lovely and much beloved friendMithcommented, noting that Bilbo at one point said“Not that we need them[restraints], given that you can pin me down with one hand.”.She said, specifically: "and now i want THAT fic because i'm thirsty and gross :)"Well, Mith's wish is my command.  I had intended this to be ready for her birthday, but it... wasn't.  I hope you'll enjoy it anyway, lovely Mithles, and thank you so much for your artwork and creativity and most of all for your friendship.  I love you lots.  :3Thanks also are due toRuto,KellyandYubi, for beta-ing, cheerleading, and other helps!





	Pinned

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mithrilbikini (liasangria)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liasangria/gifts).



As usual, the situation was entirely the Elves’ fault, but for once it was Thorin’s quick thinking that saved it. He hadn’t been standing close enough to hear exactly what the Mirkwood Ambassador had muttered, but the way Bilbo’s face drained instantly of colour was clear enough. The Prince Consort of Erebor had turned on his heel, taken a deep breath, and Thorin had caught him about the middle and bodily swept him from the room.

“Put me down!” Bilbo splutters, beating his fists on Thorin’s back as hard as he probably can. Thorin ignores him, instead striding purposefully along the mountain’s broad thoroughfares with the few Dwarves in his way scattering before him. The upper levels are rarely busy, since most of the Mountain’s work takes place deep within the stone.

He heads up towards their chambers for want of any better destination, although he’s barely scaled the second flight of stairs before Bilbo seems to have abandoned his struggles. By this time they are mostly alone, so, very gently, Thorin sets his husband back onto his feet at the top of the next landing and stands back, preparing himself for the tirade that will surely ensue.

“Well. Really. What on earth,” stammers Bilbo, and stops, his mouth working without actually forming words as he absently straightens up his clothes. He looks somewhat dazed, and notably flushed from his attempts to escape Thorin’s grip. Certainly he does not seem minded to deliver a scolding, although Thorin has been wrong about such things before.

“Forgive me,” says Thorin, keeping his voice low. He is aware that, as royalty, they are always being watched, however surreptitiously. “I could not stand another moment in the Ambassador’s company. I am sorry to have manhandled you so.”

Bilbo takes a step closer, and stares up at Thorin wonderingly. “You’re not even out of breath,” he says.

“...no?” says Thorin.

“You just carried me all that way, and I’m hardly made of dandelion fluff. I know you’re strong, I’ve seen you throwing boulders about and so on, but my goodness. I don’t know I’d ever really considered it in the context of… well, of me.” 

Waistcoat smoothed and crown straightened, Bilbo is looking Thorin up and down with frank curiosity, his usual sparkle returned.

“You are not angry?” asks Thorin, just to be certain.

“Oh, I’m livid, truly,” replies Bilbo, almost purring the words through a grin that clearly belies them. He tugs gently on the braid of Thorin’s beard to pull him into reach for a quick kiss. “Though I might have some ideas about how you can appease me, later. Now, I told Balin I’d debrief with him after the meeting so I must dash.”

Bilbo winks, and saunters back off down the stairs whence they have just come, bare feet slapping against the marble. The light of Erebor’s torches glints off his coppery hair and the golden crown that adorns it, as dust motes dance in the air about him like sparkles of some mysterious magic. Thorin watches, bewitched yet hopelessly confused, and wonders what exactly his husband is planning now. 

\--

In all his long life, Thorin had never given much thought to the arts of the bedroom before he met Bilbo Baggins. Hobbits, it transpires, have apparently devoted whole libraries to the subject, and whilst Bilbo has been a bachelor all his life, he is a very well-read one. Thus it is that Thorin has been introduced to all manner of interesting activities since they were wed, and he is seldom unwilling to follow Bilbo’s lead.

This, however, is something that still gives him pause. It is no self-flattery to simply be aware that the proportions of Dwarven bodies are not like those of Hobbits, and though this is an act Bilbo seems to enjoy, there is a good deal more work to it than when they do such things the other way about. 

“You are certain?” he asks again, pausing with the uncorked flask of oil in his hands, and Bilbo rolls his eyes. 

“Get on with it,” insists Bilbo. “Before I start feeling foolish, laid out like this.”

Their duties for the day are ended, they have eaten and bathed, and now Bilbo lies back on their bed in nothing but his skin, awaiting Thorin’s attention. There are several pillows behind his head and shoulders, and one more resting under his arse, raising it into easy reach. The King’s chambers are near the top of the Great Gate, with tall windows through which the light falls in long, pallid stripes. It illuminates shockingly naked skin, a little dimpled at its softest parts like a peach on the cusp of over-ripening, and dusted with fine golden hair that thickens into tufts on Bilbo’s feet, beneath his armpits, and at the centre of his chest. His thighs are spread, and his left hand strokes lightly along the stiffening shaft of his prick, with the other plucking at a rosy nipple. Truly, in Thorin’s eyes he looks the furthest thing from foolish.

He takes a slow breath to calm himself. Thorin has no fear of hurting his beloved, for he has an old warrior’s understanding of his own body and knows it is a weapon entirely under his control. However, the sickness that poisoned his mind when he first returned to the mountain casts a long shadow, and he will not risk even a whisper of those memories to enter Bilbo’s mind. 

Thus he works with deliberate caution, preparing Bilbo with the gentlest, most gradual movements. Often Bilbo will grow impatient when they do this, but that cannot be helped.

“Ahh,” moans Bilbo, the hand on his cock fisted now as Thorin slowly, carefully works him open, three fingers tightly held together sliding easily in and out of Bilbo’s body. Bilbo’s cock curves upward, reddened and hard, drooling clear fluid over his belly, and the sheets beneath his heels are rumpled from his squirming. “I really think that’s enough, Thorin, please, can’t I have you now?” 

“Patience,” says Thorin, grinning at the huffed sigh he receives in response. 

Small, deft hands are suddenly under his armpits, and the attack catches him off guard. Thorin is pulled forwards with a grunt of surprise, dragged up until he catches himself against the bed and finds himself nose to nose with his husband. Bilbo wraps his thighs tightly around Thorin’s waist, rutting up against his belly. 

“Now, Thorin,” he insists, with a glare that will not be denied. It seems there is something different about Bilbo tonight, though Thorin has yet to work out what it is. 

His oiled fingers reach down blindly for the bottle, and he fumbles to tip a little more oil onto his palm. It’s some clever stuff that Bilbo found in Dale’s markets, slippery but thick enough not to spill before he rescues the rounded bottle and sets it back beside the bed. Thorin slicks himself, guiding his cock against Bilbo’s body before pushing forward with care, anxious still that they have not taken enough care in preparing for this. Yet there’s no resistance as he does so, the soft, enclosing heat of Bilbo’s body tight yet not constricting around him, and Bilbo keeps babbling his encouragement. 

“Yes, good, yes, Thorin, ohh,” he moans. “There, yes.”

Thorin slides slowly forward until he is shaft-deep in that sweet, close embrace, marvelling once again that he is allowed to know such bliss. He waits, holding himself still, his forehead pressed to Bilbo’s and eyes closed, until he can hear Bilbo’s hitching breaths slow and deepen, and small hands pull at his shoulders, telling Thorin he may withdraw again. He does so, with perfect restraint, not too far, and slides home again equally slowly. Leaning down, he nips at Bilbo’s ears, knowing it will make his husband yelp with pleasure, body twitching around him. Bilbo has been growing out his hair and the gingery locks hold the scent of his sweat and the woody herbs of his soap. It’s a perfume Thorin could breathe forever, and he licks at skin, tasting the salt of it.

“There, now, hold on, just wait,” says Bilbo, digging his hands into Thorin’s hair and pulling him back to meet Bilbo’s gaze. His eyes are dark, the pupils swollen, and his panting smile is wicked. A moment ago waiting was the last thing he wanted, but he is ever capricious. “We’re going to try something. You’re going to hold my wrists down. Both of them, please.” 

As he speaks, Bilbo lays his arms back against the pillows, hands resting at each side of his head, displaying himself with a brazenness that makes Thorin’s cock jump within him.

“Like this?” asks Thorin, shifting up to rest his palms gently over Bilbo’s wrists, careful to keep his full weight upon on his forearms. 

“Exactly like that, mmm. Lovely,” nods Bilbo, grinning, although it is hard to see quite why. 

Bilbo has always liked to touch Thorin during their tumbles, his hands seldom still as they travel across Thorin’s back or along his sides, or reach lower to grope his arse and urge him to thrust harder, faster, more. In this position that will not be possible, and yet it seems not to trouble him at all. It is in Thorin’s head to question why Bilbo should want this, but there is no chance to ask, as Bilbo cranes his neck upwards for a kiss that sends all thought from Thorin’s head.

“Now,” sighs Bilbo, throwing back his head against the pillows, a smile that is almost laughter playing about his mouth. “Hold me down, Thorin, and don’t let go, promise me.”

Roughened Hobbit heels lock together in the small of Thorin’s back as Bilbo cants his hips up further to ease the angle between them, and Thorin obeys, ever obedient to his husband’s desires. Bilbo moans, and the sound is both hungry and satisfied at once. He is often loud in their bed, and to Thorin it is the sweetest music. Just at present, Bilbo is not merely moaning but writhing against the sheets in evident delight, testing Thorin’s grip upon his wrists and apparently very pleased by it. 

He is beautiful, thinks Thorin. There are no distracting, clever fingers playing over his skin, and he is free to drink in the sight before him, newly appreciative of how well his comely husband is now displayed. A pink flush spreads down to the the tuft of gingery curls at the centre of his chest from the tips of his ears, redder still from Thorin’s teeth earlier in their play. Each thrust of Thorin’s cock sends a jolt through Bilbo’s body, and the resulting ripple in the softness of his flesh can now be seen, jiggling as he rocks against the pillows, his eyes squeezed shut and repeating Thorin’s name in a voice growing hoarse with need. 

The sudden pulsing clench of Bilbo’s body around his cock comes unexpectedly quickly, caught as Thorin is in watching his husband. Unprepared, Thorin is almost carried away by it. It is with some effort this time that he holds himself back, unwilling to let the evening end so soon. 

Bilbo bites his lip through the aftershocks of his climax, gone limp, jerking with each throb of sensation beneath Thorin as he slows, rolling his hips more gently.

“Keep going,” gasps Bilbo, opening his eyes just a crack. “I’m still good, I can manage at least another, maybe two, just don’t stop yet, please.”

Thorin pauses, glancing down. The ability of Hobbits to spend more than once a tumble is well-known to him now, and he is not surprised to see Bilbo’s prick still mostly hard, lying in the mess that paints his belly. It is unlikely that he will come untouched again, however. 

“Then let me,” says Thorin, finishing the sentence with action instead of words. He pulls Bilbo’s arms further above his head, pinning them easily with a single hand, so that with the other he may reach down to grasp Bilbo’s cock. The effect is pleasingly immediate.

Bilbo curls up around Thorin once more, lifting his knees still higher, and lets out a sound that is guttural with desperation. “Oh yes, please, oh good heavens,” he pleads.

Thorin feels a surge of something like pride, and tenderness, stroking his thumb once over the wet, plush head of Bilbo’s cock and making him shiver. It is usually Bilbo who directs their bedplay, whether from beneath or above, and to be given such control of matters is unfamiliar. This is a skill, something to be mastered, to play out Bilbo’s arousal and refine it to the highest point. 

“Not yet,” says Thorin, holding his hand steady, pressing down just enough at the base to pin Bilbo against the mattress and prevent his attempts to push up into Thorin’s grip. When Bilbo realises, he looks up with wild, astonished eyes, trembling all over, his chest heaving, and his prick straining again against Thorin’s hand. It’s a striking sight.

 _“Sasakhabi abnâmul,”_ says Thorin, beginning to move again. “I want to look at you. So lovely.” 

His intentions are simple enough, but perhaps they need practice at this, since Bilbo’s eyes scrunch shut within a few moments and he groans, low and desperate, as Thorin’s hand becomes wet with seed again despite Thorin’s refusal to stroke him.

The sight makes Thorin jerk his hips and gasp, and Bilbo’s babbled pleading only becomes more fervent, begging Thorin to go faster, harder. Sweat has plastered his tawny hair against his forehead and chest, drops of it running into the seed smeared over his belly, and his eyes are half-open and barely focussed. Thrusting forward again and again, Thorin can feel the tension of his need beginning to unravel. 

“Thorin please, yes, please, oh please,” begs Bilbo, and the pity of his begging unleashes something raw in Thorin’s heart. He drags his hand up Bilbo’s prick, working it with rough speed, and Bilbo’s words fail him at last, no more than a wail of helpless need. It is Thorin who has done this, who has brought him such pleasure it can hardly be withstood. His Hobbit, his own love, his husband. 

Thorin has spent his life accustomed to being quiet at his peak, but tonight he growls with it, the wave of sensation flooding through him more powerful than usual. He drives deep, and beneath him Bilbo’s whole body stiffens, tightening and trembling until he finishes a third time with a harsh, broken gasp. There is barely anything to it at this point, merely a dribble of thin fluid, but the pulsing spasms of his body around Thorin’s cock are unmistakeable, drawing out his own climax until his strength fails him.

He falls to his side, releasing Bilbo’s hands, and attempts to catch his breath. The bed is a disgusting mess, and Bilbo lies limp and panting, and Thorin is as exhausted as after any battle.

“Bilbo?” asks Thorin, a whisper of fear in the back of his mind. 

Bilbo wriggles his shoulders, softly opening and closing his fists, but he doesn’t bring his arms back down. With care, Thorin reaches out one finger to stroke gently along his husband’s naked jaw.

“Mmm. I need a drink of water,” Bilbo says, his voice croaky, but definitely pleased. “And a snack.”

Thorin smiles, and kisses his forehead gently. “I shall see to it.”

\--

Once water and some sweet biscuits have been procured, and they have washed up, replaced the ruined sheet with a fresh one, and climbed back into bed beside one another, Bilbo speaks again.

“I’d say that went even better than expected,” he says, with satisfaction. He cuddles close, a possessive arm thrown over Thorin’s chest, his chin resting on Thorin’s shoulder and nose tucked into the hair of his beard. “Don’t you think?”

“I was not expecting anything,” says Thorin honestly. “I am not sure what to think.”

It is not possible, from this angle, to see Bilbo’s expression, but there is a pause before he speaks again. “Did you mind it?” he asks, sounding cautious.

“No,” admits Thorin. “I believe I liked it too, though I did not quite understand the appeal. It was good, to see you so surrendered to desire. It suits you.” He ponders, but cannot help himself from continuing. “Not that I wish you to submit to me, of course. Unless you wanted me to do so. I would not have you fear that I might ask it of you for myself...”

“No no no,” interrupts Bilbo, scrambling up at once. He props himself up on his elbows, lying on his stomach. In the candlelight his bare skin glows, still flushed, and his animated scowl catches the light and shadows bewitchingly. “Confound it, Thorin, you must stop this. I’m not in the least afraid of you and moreover I’m quite capable of saying no to things I don’t want.”

“I worry,” begins Thorin, and Bilbo lays a finger on his lips to shush him.

“I love you,” he says. His expression has turned unexpectedly serious all of a sudden, although his moods have always been mercurial. “I love all of you, do you understand?”

Thorin nods, although he isn’t quite sure he does.

“I love your blue eyes, and your handsome nose,” says Bilbo, reaching up to gently trace the line of it. “I love your funny hairy face, and how noble and good you are. I love how you work so hard, how you stay up past midnight reading reports that would put me to sleep in broad daylight. I love how the only jokes you can tell are horrible, terrible puns. I even love that disgustingly soft look you get when you’re looking at me and you think I haven’t noticed.”

At that Thorin attempts to protest, but Bilbo is not yet finished, laying an admonishing hand upon Thorin’s chest as he continues.

“And, Thorin, I’m afraid I also love that you’re a mighty warrior who can decapitate Orcs at a single stroke. I love that you can crush rocks with your bare fist. I love that your chest is a great furry barrel and your arms are like prize hams, and your hands are like garden spades. And I wanted you to hold me down so I could let myself revel in that, to feel really feel how big you are, how strong, because I love those things about you. It was good, I swear, and I’d wanted it for a long while if I’m honest. It felt safe and dangerous all at once, because I trust you. I trust you, Thorin. I do wish you’d trust me as much.”

Thorin can feel his heart thudding as if it wishes to escape his chest, and blinks eyes that are suddenly wet. “I do,” he says, hearing his voice crack. “Bilbo...”

Bilbo rolls his eyes. “Good. That’s settled, then,” he says, lying back down. 

This is a habit he has, to dumbfound Thorin with the poetry of his words and then refuse to hear any in return. The trick would be infuriating if it were not also so transparent. Thorin growls, rolling over to loom above his husband, who seems gratifyingly surprised.

“Stop interrupting me,” he says firmly. “Bilbo Baggins, son of Bungo, I love you too. Forgive me my foolishness.”

“Such melodrama,” says Bilbo, though his expression is fond. He reaches to tuck a lock of hair behind Thorin’s ear. “I only wanted you to hold me down in bed.”

“Again, already?” asks Thorin, raising his eyebrows.

Bilbo splutters, aghast, then narrows his eyes at Thorin’s grin. “Oh, I see. Yes, I’m sure you think you’re very funny, my King, but that’s quite enough of that for one night. Come back here, will you.”

Thorin does so, chuckling to himself. He wraps Bilbo up in the arms that are like hams, pressing him to the chest that is like a barrel, and loves him with a heart that is larger than any of these.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Sasakhabi abnâmul:_ You are beautiful
> 
> (with thanks to [yubi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/yubiwamonogatari/) for the translation!)


End file.
